


In the Depths of the Gulag

by SpaghettiCanActivist (orphan_account)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, Flashbacks, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Hurt, Mild Gore, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-17 06:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16969143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/SpaghettiCanActivist
Summary: John Murphy is a cockroach, one who has survived everything. It's hard to want to be more, but when he makes the first step to change it isn't Jaha offering a second chance but those he thought would hate him forever.A story which explores John Murphy's past and how it leads to his present.A canon divergent fic starting with episode 2x5 : Human Trials.





	1. The Line Keeps Changing Place

_Year 2140_

_Eight Years in the Past_

_The Ark_

 

 

_“Jonathan, c’mere.”_

_A slender child, seven years old with light, slightly curling blonde hair walked in an arm swinging gait across the chrome boxed room. He had blue grey eyes, pale and sharp with glee._

_“Yesss, momma,” he hissed the first word and his lips turned up, cheeks ballooning, in a mischievous smile._

_Donna Murphy pet a hand through his hair, lips curled, a flash of white teeth and her pretty soft strawberry blonde hair falling over her shoulder as she crouched down._

_“Your dad is coming home soon, and I want you to be all cleaned up for dinner."_

_John was not so gleeful, his little lips twitched with displeasure, eyes narrowing as he cast them down to the floor._

_“Okay,” he replied, before setting off in the direction of the bathroom._

_Donna watched him go, standing up from her crouch and turning back to the ration packs set out on the counter. She prepared them, hydrating the food and keeping an eye on the front door._

_John came back into the room, blinking languidly as his eyes swept the room._

_“You’ll tell your dad about classes today?” Donna asked._

_John gave a big nod, half paying attention._

_“When’s he gonna be back?” John asked, moving over to their small couch and jumping unceremoniously on it._

_“Don’t do that on the couch,” Donna snapped, tone un-humored._

_John’s brows quirked, raised in condescending ire at his mother’s irrationality. He met her gaze and flushed as her eyes narrowed dangerously. Scrambling off of the piece of furniture he turned his attention to the wall._

_“Why don’t you work on your maths, just until your dad gets here.”_

_John nodded again, looking even less pleased. Dutifully, with flamboyant reluctance, he moved out of the room once again, returning with a marker and several sheets of transparent acetate. He looked glumly to his mother, as if expecting her to repeal her command. Instead she met his gaze and raised her own brows._

_A few minutes passed in peace._

_The door opened and a man stepped in. John resembled his father, he had the same colored hair, the same jaw structure barely discernible through his baby fat, the same thin triangle nose which graced their faces like a piece of geometry, the same slender gangling limbs and frame. The only thing truly different were their eyes. John had his mother’s steely blue ones, horizontally narrow, piercing. Alex Murphy had round ochre brown eyes, big and open, framed by warm laugh lines creased as crow’s feet at the corners of them._

_“Daddy!”_

_Alex tossed his son in the air, despite how big the boy was, and hugged him tightly. John’s arms linked around his father’s neck and his smile was wide and toothy. Donna smiled as well, stepping over. John was set back on the floor._

_“Dinner’s ready,” she said._

_Alex gave a nod, looking to his son with the same bright smile._

_“Ready to eat Johnny?”_

_John gave an emphatic nod._

_The family sat down to dinner._

_It was later, after John had been put to bed and the couple were ensconced in their own that they talked._

_“You seem, tired,” Donna said. “Did something happen at work?”_

_Alex shrugged, turning around after putting the light out._

_“It was a day of work,” he replied._

_Donna frowned, putting the light back on._

_“Something’s wrong,” she said, sitting up._

_“Nothing, Donna, really, it’s nothing.”_

_Donna’s steel blue eyes never cut away from him. Alex licked his lips, sitting up as well. He ran a hand through his hair._

_“Just, we do repair work, we were in the medical bay today. I heard them talking. There’s been a lot of cases of some fever. They didn’t know what it was.”_

_Alex’s gaze fell away from his wife._

_“Another outbreak?” She asked, voice worried._

_Alex shook his head, smiling wearily._

_“No, no, I’m sure it’s nothing.”_

_Donna smiled weakly._

_“Of course, nothing.”_

  
  
_Three days later John came back from his class with a cough and a slight temperature. Donna put him to bed. The next day he was worse. He was taken to the medbay, a place now starting to swell with patients._

_“What is it?” Alex demanded, John cradled in his arms and sweaty with fever._

_Abigail Griffin, the head doctor who was currently monitoring the intake of patients, shook her head._

_“We don’t know,” she said, a penlight in hand as she pried open John’s eyes to check their response._

_Alex glanced down at his son, the boy’s breath shallow and haggard._

_“Please,” he whispered, looking desperately at the woman. “What can I do?”_

_Dr. Griffin pressed her finger against John’s radial artery at the joint of his wrist. She held it for sixty seconds before tucking his little hand back on his chest._

_“Trust the doctors, we’re going to be doing everything we can to help those who are sick.”_

_Dr. Griffin gestured to a nurse._

_“That’s just telling me to do nothing,” Alex shot back, still desperate._

_The nurse approached and Dr. Griffin gave them directions._

_“Follow me,” Dr. Griffin said quietly, not meeting Alex’s imploring gaze._

_They showed him into the medbay, the nurse following. Alex placed John on the bed indicated and the nurse began tending to John. Dr. Griffin guided Alex back out._

_“Doctor, I have to do something, I can’t lose him,” Alex pleaded._

_Dr. Griffin’s lips tightened and her face was drawn up in remorse and empathy._

_“I have a daughter, just a little older than him, she’s sick as well. Believe me when I say that I know what you’re going through,” Dr. Griffin set a hand on his arm. “But it takes time. I promise I will do everything I can to help your son.”_

_Alex’s eyes fell to the ground but he nodded._

_“Thank you, doctor.”_

_Dr. Griffin gave a little nod and Alex left._

 

_A week later, John’s eighth birthday passing interim, and Mr. and Mrs. Murphy were summoned to the medbay. A sorrowful Dr. Griffin greeted them._

_“Thank you for coming in,” her voice was low and quiet._

_The parents were terrified._

_“I’m afraid the treatment we’ve been using, the medicine, it’s helped but it hasn’t made the difference we were hoping,” Dr. Griffin paused, lips trembling till she pulled them taut against her teeth._

_Alex was very pale, but a desperate hope clung to him, Donna’s eyes were vacant._

_“He-he’s used up his allotted annual medical supplies, I can’t treat him anymore. I’m so sorry.”_

_Donna let out a soft breath, eyes widening and becoming ever more vacant. Alex let out a harsh sob._

_“No,” he said. “No, there has to be another way.”_

_Dr. Griffin shook her head._

_“He has maybe a week, the sickness has been affecting only children, so the quarantine has been placed on homes, not the medbay. You’ll be able to bring him home, make sure he’s happy and loved before he goes. He doesn’t have to die here.”_

_Alex shook with anguish, crumpling on himself as he sobbed. Donna blinked back into reality, arm coming around her husband to cradle his grief._

_“Thank you,” she said quietly._

_Dr. Griffin gave a nod._

_They were allowed to go to their son. John was semi-conscious, his little body weak from fighting and looking close to death. Alex quelled his tears enough to gather his son into his arms and leave, Donna at his elbow._

_They returned to their home where Alex tucked his son into bed and sang to him until he fell into fevered sleep. Donna watched from the doorway._

_“There has to be something we can do,” Alex whispered._

_Donna came forward, placing a hand on her husband’s shoulder._

_“It’s okay,” she whispered._

_Alex said nothing._

_“He’s not over ten, we can have another,” Donna said, trying to sound encouraging._

_Alex’s head snapped to the side, he was looking in shock at her, eyes wide and horrified._

_“How can you say that?” He whispered hoarsely._

_Donna shifted uncomfortably._

_“It’s the way it is,” Donna said, rational._

_Alex’s eyes were brimmed with tears, his hands shaking with emotion._

_“No,” he said firmly._

_Donna’s mouth tightened._

_Neither spoke._

_Donna slept on the couch, Alex didn’t sleep, seated in his son’s room waiting and watching and trying to catch the few last minutes of his son’s life._

_The next morning Donna woke to an empty apartment. Alex was gone, John left in his room and still asleep. She waited in unease for her husband to return. He didn’t. It wasn’t until a guard came to their rooms, knocking at the door and announcing the trial of Alex Murphy that she knew. He’d been sentenced already, the ubiquitous penalty of capital punishment. He was going to be floated in an hour for stealing medicine. Alex’s one request had been to be able to see his son and wife before dying. This request was to be granted._

_Ten minutes later Alex Murphy, dressed in handcuffs, was brought to the apartment (an exception made for the fact his son was sick) and allowed ten minutes. Alex hugged Donna, spent eight of his ten minutes holding his son and coaxing him awake to tell him that he loved him. He kissed his wife one last time, whispered in her ear that he was sorry. She said nothing in return._

_Forty minutes later Alex Murphy was floated, the fourteenth execution of the year._

 

 

2148

Present

The Ground, Former Eastern North America

 

There was no tragedy. Murphy thought it fitting. His life was not tragedy, because tragedy was reserved for feelings, emotions, worthiness. People didn’t think a cockroach’s demise, no matter the circumstances, tragic. It could be pitiable. Murphy liked to think he was easy to pity. But tragic, never tragic.

It was, he reasoned, the reason why they said Murphy, not John. They said Clarke (not Griffin), they said Bellamy (not Blake), they said Finn (not Collins). He’d learned to be bitter about it, but in an apathetic way. Last names gave distance. He liked it, who he was, liked being the nice roundly bitter, cynical, psychopathic murderer who enjoyed violence and power. No one expected anything from you. He liked it that way.

If only Finn Collins did too.

He’d never seen this coming, peace talking, gun hating, Finn fucking Collins pointing a gun at a bunch of defenseless villagers in order to satisfy some deep seeded anger issues involving Clarke. Honestly though, he should’ve seen it coming, he was John Murphy, the kid embroiled in every depraved act of the sky people.

“Finn, c’mon,” Murphy wheedled.

He knew what a dude looked like when they were about to shoot some people and Finn looked pretty damn similar. Finn the pacifist ignored him.

“Finn,” Murphy snapped, knowing that he was going to be ignored.

“Finn, we need to go, now,” Murphy said, louder, more insistent.

Finn didn’t move.

Stupid, arrogant, asshole who thought, well who the hell cared what Finn thought? Murphy wasn’t getting strung up, his fingernails were staying where they rightfully belonged and stupid shit wasn’t happening on his watch.

“We’re wasting time in finding your princess, they don’t know, so let’s go.”

Common sense was lost on Finn. Murphy would’ve laughed, he almost did. One of the people jumped the fence and Finn shot him. Murphy knew they were screwed. He stepped in front of Finn, saw the guy’s glazed over eyes and knew that they were completely and utterly screwed.

“Let’s go,” Murphy said, pushing, wanting the gun pointed down and away from everyone.

Finn shook his head and then another person jumped the fence. Finn drew the gun up, Murphy moved to make sure this didn’t turn into anything worse.

Murphy hadn’t thought he would do it, but Finn did. The bastard pulled the trigger. The pain wasn’t immediate, but Murphy fell to the ground, an extra hole in him. It was right under his ribs, missed his lungs, maybe. Murphy vaguely heard more gunfire and screams. He saw from his position on the ground, blood pumping out of him, the image of Finn spraying bullets into the small crowd of unarmed people. Yup, they were screwed.

The people were crying, Murphy could hear them and it was like the unpleasant background noise of Hell. Finn had stopped though.

He heard Octavia’s voice, and damn did he hate her. Bellamy and Clarke were next. Finn was talking as well.

“He was trying to stop me, I didn’t-” That was Finn, voice short and tight.

Bellamy appeared in his vision, the face dark and shadowed by worries. We’ve all got problems buddy, Murphy wanted to remind him.

“Clarke,” Bellamy's rough voice called.

Blonde haired halo, her face bruised and her eyes taken up with her boyfriend's true nature revealed. Murphy kind of wanted to spit, anything but her self-righteous ass telling him she'd save him but he didn't deserve it.

“Press down here Bellamy, I need to get a better look.”

Bellamy pressed and Murphy screamed.

“We need to get him back to camp Jaha, he's got two wounds, one with no exit. He’ll bleed out without more care.”

Murphy was a little surprised to hear no hate in Clarke's voice, just something he would almost call professionalism. That and she was saying to take him back to camp, not dump his corpse. Bless her bleeding heart, Clarke the princess of justice and equanimity.

“C'mon,” Bellamy grunted, slipping an arm around Murphy and hauling him to his feet.

The world rolled around him and he felt another body slipping next to him and taking his weight.

“I-I can walk,” Murphy forced out, wanting to get the bastard who shot him far away.

He was sick of having to be carried by people who hated him. Not that Bellamy was much better, but at least he hadn't shot him, yet.

Finn backed off and the trek through the forest commenced.

It was a bit of a blur to Murphy, in fact he fainted when they were a tenth of a mile away and Bellamy had to carry him on his back.

 

Murphy woke up alone. He was laid out on one of the few med tables, no blankets, cold as hell and feeling like shit. No pain killers, not for the criminal. Blinking he drew his head up slightly to look around. A blonde woman, a familiar blonde woman, was sitting at a makeshift desk looking at something.

Murphy was also thirsty. Minutes passed and Murphy was in too much pain to think about trying to get up and get himself something, better to lay there and die.

“You’re awake?”

Murphy rolled his eyes away from the wall to land on princess Clarke’s mom, one of the council members who’d been on his judging committee. She looked mildly surprised.

“You’re John Murphy, correct?”

Dr. Griffin was peering at him in wary interest. Murphy could only imagine the things that had been told to her.

“Yeah,” Murphy croaked out, it was barely intelligible.

Sympathy flashed across Dr. Griffin’s face and she moved away. Murphy let his eyes close, willing to wait on death so he wouldn’t have to feel so shitty.

“Here.”

Murphy’s eyes fluttered open. Dr. Griffin had a glass of water. She put a hand behind his head and helped bring him up just enough to sip at the water. It hurt, but the water was cold and felt like heaven on his throat.

“You’re lucky, one of the bullets barely missed your right external iliac, a couple centimeters and you would’ve bled out before getting here.”

Luck? Goddamn luck wouldn’t have let him get shot by a pacifist in the first place.

“Yup, lucky,” he groaned out sarcastically.

Dr. Griffin raised a brow. He met her gaze with a sardonic look of his own.

“You are lucky,” Dr. Griffin repeated firmly.

Murphy rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, lucky enough to stick around to be floated, or do you guys do it differently now, burning maybe?”

Dr. Griffin flinched, looking both horrified and shocked. She quickly schooled her expression into neutrality.

“All of the one hundred, those that are still alive at least, have been pardoned.”

Murphy let that roll around in his head. Pardoned, who would’ve guessed?

Dr. Griffin watched him a few moments more before turning away. Murphy drifted back to sleep, still cold and still in pain.

 

He woke up again, a blanket had been put over him and there were voices in the background. He opened his eyes to see Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin standing next to his bedside, the two engaged in a harsh, low conversation.

Murphy wasn’t going to interrupt them, better to eavesdrop.

“You think I don’t know that?!” Clarke hissed.

Bellamy’s lips pulled back in a feral, silent snarl.

“Then what do you suggest? We can’t have the alliance unless their blood pact thing is fulfilled, no alliance means the rest of our people are stuck in that mountain. I’m kind of running out of ideas here.”

“I know, I know,” Clarke replied, a hand coming up to brush her forehead.

The movement caused her to see Murphy.

“Murphy,” she said stiffly, turning toward him.

Bellamy followed in stance.

“Lovely, do I get flowers and a balloon?” He joked, referring to an old practice he'd read about that they'd done in the past on Earth.

Neither looked particularly amused.

“Alrighty,” he muttered shortly, raising his brows.

“We’re here to talk to you, Murphy,” Clarke said.

She was always no nonsense, straight to the point. Murphy waited.

“It’s about what happened, Octavia spoke to the villagers but we wanted to hear it from you.”

Murphy could see the slight hope in her eyes, the desire for the atrocity which was committed to have been done by his hand. Clarke was transparent in her absolute need and desire for her lover to be innocent. Murphy supposed it was easy to blame him, he wasn’t exactly the greatest guy in the world. It was ironic though, Bellamy Blake was responsible for at least three hundred and twenty deaths, Clarke for a good number. Murphy had a measly two to four, all depending on how you counted, he hadn’t necessarily murdered Charlotte but he’d been part of what had driven her to the desperate act. What the hell though, who was counting anyways?

He almost wanted to lie about it, to die for a sin he didn’t commit. The irony would be the perfect ending, one last bit of black humor to polish off a generally shitty life. But Murphy’s word wouldn’t matter, not to the Grounders, he knew them well enough to know that they never forgot. Finn should’ve killed them all and left no witnesses.

“We were looking for you princess, found the village and then a couple of jackets that were from camp, Finn went crazy and shot them up.”

Murphy gave her a caustic smile.

“That can’t be it, how did you get shot? Attacking them?” Clarke was vociferous, intent.

Murphy shook his head and looked to the side, a bitter smile pulling at his lips.

“Ironically enough I was trying to save them.”

Clarke’s face flashed with hate.

“That’s a lie,” she spat out.

“Wish it were, but if it makes it any more credible I didn’t do it because I’m a fucking saint like you. I know the Grounders, I wasn’t going back,” his voice got quiet at the end and he looked away.

“That’s not-” Clarke started but Bellamy cut her off.

“It is what it is, besides, Murphy’s right, Grounders will know who did it and telling them or ourselves that it was him won’t change anything.”

Clarke’s face fell and tears began to come. She spun on her heel, marching away. Murphy raised a brow when he saw that Bellamy had stuck around.

“Don’t suppose you’re here to keep me company?” He snarked.

Bellamy cocked his head, weary yet confident smile coming.

“Maybe I am,” he replied.

Murphy blinked. That was surprising.

“I would've thought you'd want to avoid the guy who tried to kill you.”

Bellamy shrugged, sitting down on the edge of the bed and putting a foot up against another of the beds.

“Same guy who got a dislocated shoulder saving my life.”

Murphy didn't say anything.

“You could've let go,” Bellamy eyed Murphy meaningfully before turning his eyes to the side of the medical tent.

“If I let you die the others would've gotten rid of me, painfully. I'm just a determined cockroach so don't go making me out as anything else.”

“And that village? You're going to say you took two bullets because of self-preservation?”

Bellamy was coolly playing with a bullet he'd pulled out his pocket, casually flicking it in the air with his left hand and dexterously catching it.

“A stupid cockroach then,” John conceded.

Bellamy was silent, the bullet flicking up with a tinny ring to slap back into his hand.

“What do you want Blake?” Murphy asked, sick of beating around the same stupid bush.

“Just a little bit of quiet.”

Well then you can fucking have it, Murphy thought tempestuously, turning his head away. Bellamy stayed, the sound of the bullet taking up a monotonous drone which eventually lulled Murphy to sleep.

 


	2. Various Circumstances

_ Year 2140 _

_ Eight Years in the Past _

_ The Ark _

  
  


_ John Murphy made a miraculous recovery. After his father’s execution his health gradually restored and he was returned to the medbay where basic care could be given, sans the medicine. _

_ Donna had spent little time in the medbay. Her only visit was to pick him up when he was appropriately healthy. _

_ “Mama, where's Dad?” _

_ John was still pale, his frame more wispy and frail than slender as the illness had ravaged his body. With deep purple crescent moons supporting his eyes, he looked at his mother inquisitively. _

_ The innocence of the question had Donna tightening her grip, fingers squeezing until John flinched away. Her grip lessened immediately. _

_ “Mama? Where is he?” John's brow was wrinkled in a hesitant fear, that foreshadowing sense of impending grief which tightens the chest. _

_ “He's gone, Johnathan, he's gone.” _

_ Donna didn't look at John, eyes steadfastly looking forward. John's lips opened, a little hesitant oval of pink waiting to spring forth some question. It died though. Whatever may have happened, wherever Alex Murphy was, John didn't know, but he could tell that he wasn't coming back. _

_ An unofficial wake was held in the Murphy's little compartment. A few friends and a few fellow sympathisers (those against capital punishment) came. They milled about, strangers in John's home. Donna stood apart, steel blue eyes closed off and far away. _

_ John stumbled among the long legs of adults, peering in an ever growing panic at the strange behemoths surrounding him. Finally Donna clasped his wrist, grip firm and stiff. _

_ “Go pack your room John,” Donna ordered. _

_ John blinked, glancing around with a confused frown, as if wondering if the many strangers were seeing this sudden upheaval, if they weren't as confused as he at the sudden changes. _

_ “But mama-” _

_ “No 'but mamas’,” Donna snapped, a harshness in her countenance and voice which John had never witnessed before. “Okay John?” _

_ John hesitated, felt the strange gossamer twilight which had enveloped him since reviving from his near death crystalize into a cold clear understanding. _

_ “Yes,” John whispered, eyes down. _

_ Usually Donna would stroke his hair, she would softly tap his nose or just smile to let him know she wasn't really mad. Instead she pulled away, standing as a woman approached. John watched the woman's lips twist up into a beguiling smile, brown eyes dancing with objective calculation and a hint of greed. A bottle of clear liquid was placed in Donna's hands, apparent sympathy and condolences expressed. _

_ John turned and went to his room. He placed his meagre possessions, the Murphy's had never been “essential” personnel, and ran his fingers through the fuzz of a small little tiger, stitched together with scraps and having one pirate eye. _

_ John sat on his bed and thought about his dad going away, about him never coming back. He cried a good while, till his face was swollen and the skin around his eyes achey. John fell asleep. _

_ Donna shook him awake, she smelled funny and she was lacking all her clear, fluid movements. _

_ John groggily sat up, rubbing at his eyes and looking in the dark at his mother. Her eyes were fuzzy. _

_ “We're goin’, new, new home,” she whispered out in a slur. _

_ John slid off of his bed and grabbed his small bag of belongings. Donna stumbled, but she righted herself and the two were stepping out of the room. _

_ They’d had family rooms, not the nicest, but not terrible by any means. Donna worked as a disposal specialist (specialist being a kind accoutrement to the title). Alex had worked as a basic construction/repair worker, but it had been more dignified work. _

_ John stepped down the halls, worldly possessions held close and his eyes round and fearful as they entered the poorest of living stations. Donna barely managed to key open the door, stumbling through with John following. The living compartment was small, very small. It hadn’t been prepared and looked like it hadn’t been used in many years. There wasn’t a couch, no room for it, just a wall table, able to be pulled down and small metal bench built into the wall next to it. The food preparation area had a very small alcove for a hydrater and then there was one door. Donna went through it and John cautiously peered in after her. It was a square two by two meter room with a small metal cot which also pulled down from the wall. _

_ Donna fell onto it heavily and John took one wavering step into the room. _

_ “Ge’ out!” Donna barked, slurred and thrown in the direction of the wall. _

_ John flinched, backing out of the room and shutting the door. He peered around the metal room, the small box which seemed to represent the tomb or the place his father had gone to, leaving him and his mother alone. _

_ John sank to the floor in one of the corners, his little tiger doll clutched to his chest. He fell asleep without meaning too, monsters looming in the dark shadows of the cold room. _

 

 

  
_ John switched classes, placed in a lower and less intense course than before. He had asked why but the teacher had given him little explanation. Donna just told him not to ask questions. Her peculiar condition of slurred speech, uncoordinated movements and more vituperative actions and words was reserved for the evenings. John would watch her draw out that bottle and after a few small cups of it, she would turn from a cold, distant marble creature into a hot, searing monster which John did not recognize. He didn’t know either of these people and he wondered if his mother had left along with his father and put in place, by accident, this strange thing. _

_ The bottle was empty by the middle of the second week in their new compartment. Donna disappeared that evening, John left to figure out the hydrater by himself. _

_ She returned, nothing in hand, and she looked sick and nervous. She flitted about the hydrater for a while, messing with it. John had eaten already and was curled up on the little cot which had been brought in for him and was kept in a corner of the very small entrance room. _

_ Donna looked at him from time to time with intense consideration, when John met her gaze with disturbed curiosity a weak smile would pass crookedly onto her face, her eyes would dive a moment later to the side and her lips would curl and twitch before finally she would shake her strawberry curls and turn away. _

_ Finally, by the end of the night, she stood and grabbed John by the wrist. _

_ “C’mon,” she said softly. _

_ John followed her out. _

_ Donna lead them out into the light dimmed hallways, it was the time considered night, and down them. John followed, stomach curling with disease and apprehension. Finally they arrived at a living compartment. It was nicer than their last one. _

_ Donna knocked. _

_ A moment later the door slid open to reveal that woman from the party. John vaguely remembered her. _

_ “Nygel,” Donna said, voice dipping in pleading. _

_ The woman named Nygel raised her mouth into a feline smile, eyes dancing. She looked down at John and her smile seemed to beam a little brighter with greed. _

_ “You’ve come to your senses Donna, come in,” she stepped back to allow them through, moving one hand in a grandiose gesture to her living quarters. _

_ Donna entered and John could feel his mother’s palm slick with sweat and shaking. _

_ Nygel shut the door. _

_ “How much?” Donna spat out. _

_ “Now, now, not too hasty dear,” Nygel said, floating through the apartment to her counter. _

_ Donna said nothing, head tilting as her lips tightened. _

_ “Three quarts, second batch,” Nygel said. _

_ “That’s it?” Donna replied, voice high. _

_ “It’s what we have m’dear, supply and demand. Second batch isn’t terrible quality either, not the best, but better than what others get.” _

_ “Fine,” Donna said quickly. “When do you take him?” _

_ Nygel blinked in surprise. _

_ “Not now, later, bring him back to my compartment tomorrow after he’s done with school. I’ll need him then.” _

_ Donna nodded, watching hungrily as Nygel stood and entered the depths of her apartment. Returning she handed Donna a small knapsack. _

_ Donna took the knapsack like her life depended on it, dropping John’s hand and releasing it from the damp prison of her fingers and palm. They left the room, Donna’s full attention on her treasure, John trailing behind as an afterthought. _

  
  
  
  
  


Year 2148

Present

The Ground, Past Eastern North America

  
  


John didn’t waste all of his time thinking about the past, he really didn’t. If he did he would be dead. That wasn’t to say he didn’t think of it once in a while. When he allowed himself time to drop back into memories he tried to avoid good ones or bad ones. He rarely envisaged his father’s wide smiles or his warm eyes as they swept over John with love and tenderness. He also tried to stamp down remembered hands in places they shouldn’t be, of starving, of hanging.

John wasn’t inclined to pity, or self-pity, or whatever the crap it was that Clarke was always toting around, some kind of tragic martyr. He didn’t excuse his behavior either. He’d murdered Myles and Connor with every ounce of premeditated hate everyone accused him of. He didn’t regret it either, at least not most days. He was a murderer and he was able to accept that fact and move on from it. He’d also saved lives, so he was giver and taker of life, just like everybody else on the ground. But it seemed he was the only one who accepted it as just a part of life.

“Murphy.”

John blinked, taken aback and pulled from his thoughts.

“If it isn’t king of the camp,” Murphy gave a lopsided and acerbic smile.

“Finn’s dead.”

Bellamy didn’t have any sort of look on his face, he was watching Murphy.

“Sucks,” Murphy said, unable to maintain eye contact.

A small part of him wondered if it should’ve been him.

“An alliance was made, but if we’re going to get into Mt. Weather we need someone on the inside.”

Murphy was surprised. He’d been moved out of the medbay tent and was sleeping in a one person tent at the edge of the so called living quarters. Currently he’d been sitting outside Camp Jaha’s barbed wire barriers and had seated himself on the slope facing the spacious lake.

Bellamy stood just slightly behind him.

“Sounds like you guys are screwed,” Murphy replied, leaning forward to grab a pebble and ignoring the pain as his wounds pulled from the movement.

Bellamy stepped forward, hands going to his hips as he peered down at Murphy. He sniffed, stance shifting just so.

“Clarke thinks I’m her best bet for getting in there.”

Murphy nodded his head, kind of seeing where this was going and not wanting any part in it.

“Good for you,” he said sarcastically, tossing his pebble and starting to get to his feet.

He stumbled a little, pain once again letting him know that he’d been shot twice. Bellamy caught him, a hand on his elbow. Murphy glared at Bellamy, tearing his arm away.

“I think she’s wrong, I think we got other chances of getting in there.”

Murphy raised a brow, and nodded his head.

“Right, and one of those ‘chances’ involves me?” He asked humorlessly.

Bellamy gave a reluctant nod and answer.

“Yeah.”

“Oh fuck you Bellamy Blake,” Murphy spat out, turning sharply on his heel and heading toward the lake.

Because all that the one hundred delinquents had been to him was false hope, a false hope which had ultimately choked him, stole any sense of belonging and a false hope which he’d murdered as best as he could. Why in the hell would he give two fucks for any of them?

Murphy stopped when he reached the edge of water and rock. He crouched down, pain flaring again, to grab a small rock, before hucking it full force into the body of water. Murphy almost expected Bellamy to have followed him. The man hadn’t though and he was left alone in the chill, staring out at a glassy mirror lake, one large mountain peak jutting into the skyline.

He stayed for a few more minutes before heading back into the camp. Somehow he sought out Bellamy. The man was speaking to one of the guards. When he appeared the guard’s eyes cut to him with such venom that if he didn’t care about how people looked at him he would’ve turned tail and run.

The guard said nothing to him, instead shooting one last vicious glare at Bellamy and then Murphy before stalking away at a fast pace.

“I’m in,” Murphy said.

Bellamy looked surprised.

“What’s the plan?” Murphy asked, intentionally aggressive as if daring Bellamy to refuse him.

Bellamy just gave a half smile and nodded his head.

“Good, I’ll tell you about is as we go.”

“Go where?” Murphy asked, following Bellamy as the man headed for the guarded entry of the camp.

“We’re going to meet Clarke at her rendezvous with the Grounders, they’re still trying to get some kind of alliance in place,” Bellamy said.

They stopped by a tent near the entry of the camp, Bellamy entering.

“You’re saying they still haven’t made an alliance?” Murphy asked incredulously.

Bellamy’s jaw tightened as he bent down to pick up one of the automatic rifles. He slung it around his shoulder and gave Murphy a small shake of his head.

Murphy let out a snort of bitter laughter. Bellamy handed him a hand gun.

“You’re telling me that you want to get into Mt. Weather before you even know that you have the backup of the Grounders?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy conceded tightly.

Murphy shook his head again.

“Look, you got a problem with it you can stay here, you don’t have to come.”

Murphy was quick to answer, hands coming up.

“Nah, nah, I said I was in. Not like I have anything else better to do.”

Bellamy’s mouth twitched with a hint of a smile before he gave a nod and stepped out of the tent. They headed out of the camp, Bellamy giving a small wave to the guards. Murphy let his eyes slide over the guards with overt distaste. With his back to them he felt his insides prickle with unease.

“So, uh, what’s the big plan?” Murphy asked as they began the trek toward wherever this alliance was being made.

“I go in with Lincoln with him posed as a Reaper and me as his captive. We get to the entrance and then I slip in while he makes a commotion. Nobody’ll be looking for a Grounder trying to get in.”

“Sounds suicidal,” Murphy said with mock cheer.

Bellamy looked briefly at him over his shoulder.

“It’s the plan we have.”

Murphy said nothing in response to that, his own opinions kept to himself.

“And my part?” Murphy asked.

“You go up to the front door.”

Murphy stopped, incredulity filling him. These were the people who were killing theirs for their blood.

“Excuse me?” Murphy said indignantly.

Bellamy turned around.

“You can bullshit better than anyone I know, and they need more of us. You talk your way in and then we’ll figure it out after that.”

Bellamy kept walking, swatting absently at a bug.

“We’ll figure it out after that? That’s the grand plan?”

Bellamy let out a dismissive ‘yup’.

“You’re fucking insane,” Murphy said.

“I hope so,” Bellamy replied.

 

They continued the trek, making it halfway to the Grounder camp called Tondc before they were met by a group of Grounders. The Grounders asked questions, Bellamy presented some bone token thing which allowed them safe passage. Continuing on, they moved through forest until they came to a large village. The path took them through it.

People stared and it was as always discomfiting, but it got worse when one of them pointed at Murphy and started talking fast in the Trigedasleng language. Other Grounders started looking more, whispers growing. Murphy tensed, eyes flitting between the various threats. Bellamy looked back at him, eyes wary and confused.

Murphy shook his head and shrugged at Bellamy’s inquisitive look. He had no idea why they were looking at him. Finally a Grounder woman stepped forward and approached him. Murphy stopped, expecting something like a hit or an attack and fearing that they were both going to die here.

Instead she pressed a hand to her chest before bringing it to Murphy’s forehead. She said something in Trigedasleng which Murphy didn’t understand.

“Sonraun lukrot,” she said, dipping her head with a smile.

Murphy glanced over at Bellamy glad to see that the man was as lost as he was.

They kept going and eventually got out of the village and on their way to Tondc. When they arrived some sort of ceremony was going on as the people were gathered around a pole. They’d left their weapons with the Grounders at the boundaries and both felt naked without them.

Moving forward they saw a Grounder being cut down from the pole, his body littered with cuts and one mortal wound in his chest. The atmosphere was somber and heavy.

Bellamy spotted Kane and made his way over with Murphy trailing behind.

“Bellamy Blake,” Kane said, eyes going over Bellamy before skipping briefly to Murphy.

“Where’s Clarke?” Bellamy asked gruffly.

“She’s with Lexa, discussing the peace treaty.”

Bellamy gave a nod, starting to head in the direction of the tent. Kane put a hand on his shoulder.

“A private meeting,” Kane said.

“Well, they need to hear this, so,” Bellamy brushed past Kane with rude dismissal.

Murphy raised his brows at Kane, a spiteful smile flashed at the ex-chancellor as he followed in Bellamy’s wake. Kane said nothing, staring on in a stoic look that covered his ire.

The Trikru guards at the door stopped them. Bellamy started to explain the situation, sort of, demanding that he be let in. Clarke appeared, face a stone cold mask that made her seem nearly unrecognizable. A Grounder girl, holding herself in a commanding way, was just behind her.

“Bellamy, you made it,” Clarke said as way of greeting.

She cast a cold eye on Murphy.

“Who is this?” The Grounder girl demanded.

Murphy got a feeling that she was some kind of bitchy leader, she had a fancy sword and all of the Grounders were looking to her as if waiting for her word. Clarke turned to her and Murphy was surprised, and amused, to see the strange draw of will between the two that was near sexual.

“This is Bellamy Blake, he leads some of our people, I trust him.”

The girl’s eyes moved from critically eyeing Bellamy to turning Murphy inside out.

“And this?” She said coldly.

“John Murphy,” Clarke replied shortly.

The girl’s eyes lightened with surprise.

“You are the one who was at my village,” she stated, almost a question.

Murphy shrugged, looking between Clarke and Bellamy. Both of them were tense. Great, he was going to get his head chopped off, or tortured, or that Thousand Deaths thing which was going to suck ass. Thanks Bellamy, you fucking asshole. This was what he got for trying to be good.

“You are called Sonraun Lokrot by some of my people. To sacrifice life for innocents is honored greatly. I thank you for what you have done.”

Clarke looked absolutely incredulous. Even Bellamy looked a little surprised.

“Yeah, my pleasure,” Murphy said with just an edge of sarcasm.

The girl didn’t seem to notice, or if she did she didn’t care. The girl’s attention returned to Clarke.

“We should continue the meeting, much must be discussed. My people will be wary until peace has been set in stone.”

Clarke gave a nod.

“Lexa, I just need a minute, to speak with Bellamy and then I will return.”

Lexa, the girl leader’s name apparently, inclined her head and turned back into the tent. Clarke approached Bellamy and the two started to walk away and off to the side. Murphy went along as he imagined he would probably feature in the conversation.

When they were well off to the side, Clarke stopped and turned to Bellamy. She cast an suspicious glance at Murphy but otherwise said nothing.

“You should go with Lincoln, as soon as you can.”

Bellamy raised a brow in surprise.

“That’s not what you were saying earlier.”

Clarke shook her head.

“I trust you to stay alive Bellamy and to succeed. We are going to need someone in Mt. Weather if any of this is going to work. All the Grounders on our side won’t mean anything if the acid fog isn’t gone.”

Bellamy nodded. “Alright.”

Clarke looked over at Murphy.

“He’s agreed to go, I figure, even if you trust me to succeed, we should have a backup. Beside, if we both in we got double the chance of getting the acid fog down and making sure our people are alive and safe.”

Clarke gave a hesitant nod.

“Good, now to make sure we have the Grounders on our side.”

Clarke stepped back toward the camp and Bellamy followed. Murphy could only think that he would probably end up dead one way or the other.

  
  



End file.
